The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus

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The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus Page 10

by Sonya Sones


  is so full of humor and heart and hope

  it could win her a date with Johnny Depp.

  GRADUATION DAY SNAPSHOT

  Even as I click the shutter

  to capture this moment forever—

  Samantha’s swirling blue curtain

  of robes,

  her classic square hat

  tipped at a rakish angle,

  her hair cascading down from beneath it

  like a shining brunette waterfall,

  the glimmer in her eyes

  so full of future…

  Even as I click

  the shutter

  I can almost hear

  her daughter saying,

  “Wow! Look how cute mom

  was when she was my age…”

  And I can almost hear

  her daughter saying,

  “Omigod! Look at Grandma’s

  weird old-fashioned hairstyle…”

  And I can almost hear

  her daughter saying,

  “Whoa…What an amazing old photo!

  I wonder who that girl is…”

  ANOTHER CALL FROM MY MOTHER

  Her voice is two octaves higher than usual.

  She says she’s been looking all over for her cat,

  Max, but she can’t find him anywhere.

  Then,

  in a tone colder than dry ice,

  she hisses, “Why did you steal him from me?”

  “Mom,” I say. “You’re confused.

  Max wasn’t your cat.

  He was my cat…Remember?

  He used to sit on my lap while I wrote.

  But then, last summer, that car hit him…

  Remember…?”

  My heart

  heaves itself into my throat

  at the memory of this…

  But my mother’s not having any of it.

  “You had that poor creature put to sleep

  and now you’re trying to have me put to sleep!”

  So I hang up and call Dr. Hack

  to ask him when he can start weaning her

  off the steroids.

  He says

  cutting back before mid-July

  would be unwise

  because the good news is

  that the drugs are working—

  my mother’s stronger and in much less pain.

  He says the bad news is

  that they’ve affected her mind:

  she’s hostile, delusional, and paranoid.

  Plus, he says my mother’s got this spiky fever.

  He says the polymyositis could be causing it,

  but that cancer could also be causing it.

  He says she has a mass in her breast

  that they should test.

  “She has a what?” I say.

  “A maaaasssss,” he repeats, slowly and clearly,

  as though explaining something to a small child.

  “And she’ll need to have her colon tested, too.”

  Suddenly, I feel like

  I’ve been shot through with Novocain.

  “Of course…” I say. “Her colon…”

  I hang up the phone

  without even saying good-bye

  and hear Pinkie yapping

  like there’s no tomorrow.

  I PULL MYSELF TOGETHER

  Then I call my mother right back

  and tell her I’m going to book a flight

  and spend the July 4th weekend with her.

  She doesn’t sound angry anymore,

  but she says she doesn’t feel up to

  having any visitors.

  I hang up and try to book a flight anyway.

  But I guess the universe

  is on my mother’s side—

  because, for the first time in recorded history,

  there are no weekend flights available

  to Cleveland.

  I don’t let that stop me, though.

  I keep right on

  scouring Travelocity.

  Maybe I can get there

  on Sunday or Monday or…

  Then Michael intercedes.

  “Myra may be nuts right now, Holly.

  But she’s made it pretty clear

  she doesn’t want any visitors.”

  “Besides,” he adds,

  “you’re so anxious you’d probably

  just make her more anxious.”

  And,

  damn it all—

  he’s got a point.

  BUT I CALL ALICE, JUST TO MAKE SURE

  She says

  Michael’s absolutely right.

  She says if I showed up in Cleveland

  I’d drive my mother

  even crazier

  than she already is.

  “Besides,” she says, “Don’t you realize

  what a fantastic sign this is?”

  “What are you talking about?” I say

  “If Michael were having an affair,

  he’d be encouraging you to leave town.

  Not trying to convince you to stay home!”

  Relief washes over me.

  I really, really want to believe her…

  But then another thought strikes—

  “What if Michael’s just using

  reverse psychology on me,

  to try to trick me into going?”

  I can almost hear

  Alice’s eyes rolling

  in the silence that follows.

  “What…?” I say.

  “Nothing…” she says.

  “You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?” I say.

  “No,” she says,

  “I think you are overwrought.

  And I think you should stay home.”

  So I do.

  WEEKEND UPDATE

  Dr. Hack says the good news

  is that my mother’s fever

  has finally broken.

  He says the bad news

  is that the lab is backed up

  because of the long holiday weekend,

  so the biopsy results

  won’t be in

  for at least a week.

  “But no news is good news,” he quips.

  “No it isn’t,” I snap.

  “No news is no news.”

  And I guess

  he thinks my snarky remark

  is a joke,

  because he starts chuckling—

  that hideous, nerve-jangling,

  nails-on-the-blackboard chuckle of his…

  I swear to God,

  if he keeps this up

  he’s going to need a doctor.

  IS IT A BAD SIGN?

  Is it a bad sign

  if whenever the telephone rings

  you break out

  in such an awful case of hives

  that your skin feels bumpier

  than a book written in Braille?

  LIMBO DAZE

  Still no word

  from Dr. Hack.

  Time creeps by

  like a snail on quaaludes…

  Samantha spends her days at the beach

  with Wendy, Tess, and Laura.

  Michael holes up in his studio and paints.

  I wander through a fog that never lifts—

  ignoring Roxie’s emails and calls;

  trying my best to tune out Jane’s trumpet,

  Duncan’s drums, Madison’s tantrums,

  and Pinkie’s constant yapping.

  I call my mother every day to check on her,

  but she’s so crazed from the steroids

  that she’s oblivious to the fact

  that her body might be riddled with cancer.

  I, on the other hand,

  can think of nothing else.

  I’ve given up trying to write.

  I’ve given up trying to do anything.

  The only upside

  of being so worried

  about the results

  of my mother’s biopsies


  is that it’s keeping me

  from worrying about

  You Know Who

  and You Know Who

  doing who knows what.

  I’VE BEEN OUT ALL MORNING BUYING PRESENTS FOR MY MOTHER

  Flowery stationery.

  Scented candles.

  Polka-dot socks.

  Gardening books.

  She doesn’t really need any of these things,

  but I couldn’t bear another minute

  of just sitting around the house

  waiting to hear from Dr. Hack.

  Besides, it’ll make me feel better

  to stick them into the box

  with the butterscotch brownies

  Sam whipped up for her last night.

  Though when I spread out all the gifts

  and sit down to wrap them,

  I discover that my scissors are missing.

  Big shock, right?

  But there’s no point

  in calling Michael to ask him

  to bring them down to my office—

  because he’s out buying art supplies.

  At least that’s what

  the note he left

  claimed

  he was doing.

  SO I STOMP OUT OF MY OFFICE

  And storm past our ailing pepper tree,

  taking the stairs to Michael’s studio

  two at a time.

  But as soon as I shove open the door,

  my eyes land on his computer screen,

  which happens to show his email in-box.

  And I have no desire to even glance at it

  Really.

  I don’t.

  But there’s like

  this irresistible gravitational pull

  or something

  because, before I know it,

  I’m reading subject headings

  like:

  “can you sneak away?”

  and “something ‘secret’ to show you…”

  and “will I see you later on?”

  And all of them

  are from someone named

  “Redmama”!

  OMIGOD!

  What if

  Michael’s with Redmama

  this very instant?

  What if

  “later on”

  is right now?

  What if

  life as I’ve known it

  is over?

  I can feel my face turning

  whiter than the untouched canvas

  propped on Michael’s easel.

  My fingers itch

  to open those emails.

  Should I…?

  Or shouldn’t I…?

  MY HAND CREEPS OUT

  And hovers

  over the mouse.

  I am

  one click away

  from finally knowing

  for sure

  whether or not

  Michael’s having an affair with Brandy…

  But do I really

  want to know?

  SUDDENLY

  The kitchen’s screen door

  slams open—

  Oh, no! It’s Michael!

  I yank my hand away from his computer,

  my blood churning now

  like river water during a flood.

  But then I hear Sam’s voice.

  “Mom…? Where are you?

  I’m back from the beach…”

  I hadn’t known

  I’d been holding my breath,

  but now I exhale and shout, “Here I am!”

  while relief and…

  the opposite of relief

  ricochet through my body like pinballs.

  SAMANTHA SAYS SHE’S CRAVING AN OMELET

  So I stagger down the stairs

  and head into the kitchen with her.

  “Any word on Grandma?” she asks.

  “Not yet…” I say, feeling my cheeks flush.

  I haven’t even been thinking about my mother.

  I am the worst daughter ever.

  “Where’s Dad?” Sam asks.

  “Out,” I say, cracking two eggs into a bowl.

  “Out where?” she asks.

  That’s what I’d like to know,

  I think to myself.

  Or what I wouldn’t like to know…

  But I don’t say any of this out loud.

  I just tell Samantha

  her father’s buying art supplies.

  “Well,” Sam says, taking out a frying pan,

  “I called him half an hour ago

  and he didn’t pick up his cell.”

  An icy tremor races up my spine.

  I begin beating the eggs

  to a bloody pulp.

  “Oh, you know how Dad is…” I say,

  beating the bejeezus

  out of those eggs.

  “He’s always turning off his phone

  and then forgetting

  to turn it back on.”

  SAM HANDS ME A STICK OF BUTTER

  And when I reach

  into the drawer for a knife,

  I somehow manage to nick my finger.

  “Shit!” I say,

  as tears start rolling

  down my cheeks.

  Sam doesn’t know

  the real reason

  I’m crying.

  But she sees the drop of blood

  seeping from my finger

  and runs for a Band-Aid.

  A minute later,

  while she’s helping me put it on,

  she says,

  “You’re really letting

  this biopsy thing get to you, Mom.

  What you need is some retail therapy.”

  I don’t tell her

  I just spent all morning

  shopping for my mother.

  I leap at the chance to get out of the house—

  away from those emails

  and my roiling thoughts.

  TWO MINDLESS HOURS, THREE NEW BRAS, FOUR NEW T-SHIRTS, AND FIVE NEW SWEATERS LATER

  Samantha and I

  head home from

  the Macy’s One-Day Sale.

  But as we round the corner

  onto our block,

  and our house comes into view,

  my heart shatters

  like a windshield

  in a head-on collision—

  Michael’s car

  is not

  in the driveway.

  He’s been out

  “buying art supplies”

  for over three hours.

  SAMANTHA NOTICES, TOO

  “Geez,” she says. “What did Dad do?

  Fly to Paris to buy pastels?”

  She pulls out her phone

  and punches in his number.

  “He’s still not picking up…” she says,

  starting to look worried.

  “I’m sure he’ll be home

  any minute,” I tell her.

  But I am not

  at all sure.

  ENOUGH IS ENOUGH

  I’ve got to open those emails.

  Because if Michael’s not with Brandy

  maybe he’s been in an accident…

  Maybe

  he’s in the hospital…

  Maybe he’s—!!!

  I pound up the stairs to his studio,

  the blood rushing in my ears

  almost loud enough

  to drown out the sound

  of Madison having

  another one of her tantrums.

  I yank open the studio door,

  fling myself onto the chair

  in front of Michael’s computer,

  square my shoulders,

  swallow hard,

  and click on the email with the heading:

  “will I see you later on?”

  HERE IS WHAT THE EMAIL SAYS:

  i hope you can

  sneak away today

  like we planned…

  can’t WAIT!
/>   xoxo,

  Brandy

  MICHAEL’S NOT BUYING ART SUPPLIES!

  He’s with that…

  that skank!

  Everything I’ve feared all along—

  all of it’s true!

  A tornado rips

  through my chest

  leaving my heart in shreds,

  my ribs scattered like fallen trees.

  Omigod…

  Omigod!

  Am I going to lose my mother

  and my daughter and my husband—

  all in one

  hideous fell swoop?

 

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